Bell's Table
by Elwen
Summary: A series of short tales about Bell Gamgee and the Baggins family.
1. Default Chapter

I do not own the characters, main events or settings of these stories. They were conceived by the fertile imagination of JRR Tolkien and are now owned by his heirs and executors. I am only playing in his sandpit and hope he will forgive me the liberty.

BELL'S TABLE.

This is a series of stand-alone scenes that I will post to occasionally. I must confess to having been inspired to write them by Febobe's series...The Memory of Taste but mine have a slightly perverted twist in that most of the foods I have selected are of a less savoury nature. (In fact Febobe refused to read some of the scenes when she learned what Bell was preparing.) And before you ask...yes I have eaten some of the foods mentioned.

CHAPTER 1 – A Good Heart

Bilbo settled on one of the benches by the kitchen table and Bell smiled as she placed one of her best teacups before him, pouring milk and adding the strong tea. Little Samwise pushed the honey across the table and then continued to shell the large mountain of peas before him. 

The master of Bag End watched in amusement as the lad rescued a large fat green caterpillar and walked gravely to the door, laying it down on the grass by the front step. It was a good job the Gaffer was not around, for he would have told Samwise to kill it. In his mind, Bilbo could hear him chiding even now.

"I don't grow vegetables fer no caterpillars. I grows 'em to feed people."

Sam returned and continued his work and Bell reached out a hand to ruffle his curls as she finished slicing carrots. Bilbo stirred a spoonful of honey into his strong tea, careful not to use too much. He made a mental note to find a reason to send across a jar at some point. Honey was expensive and he knew that the Gamgees did not use it in tea themselves, keeping it for cooking instead.

Wielding a small, sharp knife . . . it's blade worn into a concave arc by years of sharpening, Bell did not look up as she spoke.

"So. How is little Master Frodo? It must have been a long trip fer him from Buckland . . . him havin' been so ill an' all. I hope it don't cause him to relapse. I'm surprised the doctor let him travel." Her voice held a note of censure. But then, it always did when she talked of Buckland. Like most people in Hobbiton, she considered the folk who lived beyond the river a bit "touched". "He should've been left tucked up in bed fer another week at least after that influenza, if ye ask me."

The implication of her words was not lost on the bachelor hobbit. "And you think I should have had more sense, Bell?" he asked quietly. He had been dubious, to be sure. But the doctor had said it was alright and Frodo had managed, although he had nodded against his uncle's shoulder for the last two hours of the cart journey and Bilbo had shooed him straight to bed when they had arrived. Bilbo had left the lad still sleeping soundly this morning.

Bell pursed her lips and started peeling onions. "Beggin' yer pardon an' all, Mr Bilbo. But you ain't used to carin' fer young uns." She looked towards the sink and the sound of splashing.

"Daisy, ye be sure to get all the blood clots out o' that beast heart. I don't want to go sticking my hand in to stuff it and coming up all bloody again, like last time."

Daisy looked contrite. "Ma . . . I'll do it right, this time. I ain't never done it afore last time. I'll flush it out good. I promise."

Bell nodded. "There's my good lass." She went on to start dicing onions and Bilbo noticed little Samwise wipe his eyes. Bell followed his gaze.

"Why don't ye move a bit further down the table, Sam? These onions are a mite strong."

Sam nodded and slid himself and the peas further down the bench. Bilbo sipped his tea.

"I must admit. I did wonder whether it would be safe to move Frodo. But the doctor seemed happy. And when I checked him this morning he had no sign of fever. He just seems tired." A note of uncertainty crept into his voice. "Do you think he will be alright? Perhaps I should go and check on him again." He made to rise and little Samwise's eyes grew wide in alarm, but Bell's calm voice cut the rising panic.

"Ye sit there an' finish yer tea. If he didn't start a fever durin' the night he ain't goin' to start one now. He's young. He'll bounce back. Young uns usually do," she announced sagely.

Daisy brought the cleaned heart to the table and set it in a roasting tray while her mother added the diced onions to the stuffing mix waiting nearby. She looked at Daisy for a moment, assessing. Then she pushed over the basin of sage and onion stuffing. "Here's another job for ye, lass. Ye can stuff the heart. Make sure ye get it right down inside, mind ye."

Daisy beamed at being entrusted with this extra responsibility. "Yes, Ma." She took up a handful of stuffing and forced it down one of the holes widened in the top of the heart . . . her tiny hand disappearing inside as she forced the breadcrumb and suet mix down as far as she could reach.

Bell took up a larger knife and began to chop up some turnip. "Sam, lad. Will ye go to the pantry an' fetch that little bowl o' broth for me?" The swede was firm and Bell struggled to get the large, razor sharp knife through it.

"I put some beef broth aside fer Master Frodo last night. It's got a few vegetables in it but I've chopped 'em extra fine fer him. I wasn't sure as how he would be feelin'. From the sound o' it he ain't taken no harm but he might like it anyhow."

Sam crept carefully across the room from the pantry, a small basin held firmly between both hands. He concentrated on the sloshing liquid, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth and relinquished it to Bilbo in relief, returning to his pile of peas and popping one in his mouth as reward. Bell grinned.

Bilbo inhaled the fragrance of the broth, a very thin layer of fat crazing its surface like ice on a puddle. "I am sure Frodo will love it, Bell. The doctor said they were still having to tempt him to eat and I can think of few things more tempting than your cooking."

Bell kept one eye on her knife as she glanced up at her guest. "I don't know 'bout that. Although I've learned a few things, bringin' up this brood. Anyway, yer a fair cook yerself, Mr Bilbo. The lad ain't goin' to starve, that's fer sure. Talkin' of which . . . I think it is about time ye should be checkin' on him, now. It's been an hour since ye came in."

Bilbo's eyes widened. "Oh my . . . that long?" He rose, hurriedly. "I should check, shouldn't I." His eyes fell to the basin of broth and he lifted it carefully. "He may be looking for his breakfast even now. Dear me. Some Uncle I am." He hurried to the door and Sam rushed ahead to open it for him. "Thank you, Bell," he called over his shoulder.

With that, he left, and Sam stood in the doorway, watching him hurry up the hill to the big smial, hoping to catch a glimpse of the new occupant.

"Samwise Gamgee . . . ye come in here and finish yer job. T'aint polite to rubberneck."

Daisy giggled and her mother glared at her, reaching over to score the flesh of the beast heart that now lay, stuffed and ready for roasting, on the tin.


	2. Bags and Thoughts on Bagin' a Baggins

CHAPTER 2 – Bags and thoughts on Bagin' a Baggins

"Let me see those hands afore ye sit down, Sam," Bell demanded as she set his plate on the table at the side closest to the fire. The lad had just come back from helping the Gaffer clear snow from the garden path at Bag End and the cold air had turned his nose and ears quite purple.

Bell looked up from the sink drainer, where she was drying some pots, and rubbed away some of the condensation from their one window. What a waste of time that had been . . . and Hamfast had then gone off to Hobbiton to help Widow Bolger with her path. Within five minutes of the Gaffer leaving the snow had started up again and a strong blustery wind was dashing large wet flakes against the windowpanes. Bell hoped that her husband would soon be inside. She knew that Buttercup would keep him warm with plenty of cups of hot tea once he reached her smial.

A small tug at her apron told Bell that Sam had finished washing and she fell to examining the sturdy little hands, turning them over to check the finger nails. Not that Gaffer and the lads ever managed to keep their nails clean . . . but Bell insisted that they at least try. She reached down and ruffled his hair.

"Ye'll do. Go eat yer elevenses. An' don't ye go eatin' up all the bread. Leave some fer the Gaffer."

Sam's face, which had lit up at sight of the big plate of bread and butter, fell. He tucked in nonetheless, ignoring Daisy's snigger. They all looked up at a tentative tap at the door. Daisy suddenly became engrossed in her mending and Sam started to get up, but Bell put a hand on his shoulder.

"Go an' see who's at the door, Daisy."

Daisy sighed and made a big show of securing her needle and folding Sam's nightshirt, on which she had been recovering the collar.

"Spit spot, lass. Whoever's there is standin' in a blizzard," chided Bell and Daisy jumped to obey, knowing that she had taken one step the wrong side of the line. Sam ducked his head to hide a smile but Bell knew enough about siblings to tap him gently on the shoulder in censure.

Daisy opened the door, admitting a flurry of snow and revealing a figure in a thick green hooded cloak. From the depths of the big hood a light but cultured voice asked, "Is Mistress Gamgee at home please?"

Not used to being addressed in this manner, Daisy simply blinked and turned back to her mother for instruction. Although she had not yet met him, Bell realised who it was as soon as he spoke and bustled forward, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Bless me, lass. Invite poor Master Frodo in. He must be half froze, standin' on the doorstep. And close the door properly after him. Don't go lettin' in any more cold air."

Daisy stepped back and Frodo entered quickly, turning to close the door himself, before pulling back the hood of his cloak. The young lass assessed him critically and dismissed the lad at once as too skinny and pale than was proper for a hobbit, returning to her mending.

Bell took over as hostess. "Come in, young master. Let me take yer cloak. Ye must be froze . . . come sit by the fire."

Frodo made to protest at first but within seconds she had unfastened his cloak, draping it over a chair to warm by the range, and shepherded him to sit on the bench by Sam. The young Gamgee looked up from his plate and met eyes the clear blue of summer skies, set in a fine boned face and framed with curls the colour of ripe chestnuts. The cold had kindled a pink glow on high cheekbones in an otherwise alabaster skin and Sam thought for a moment that an elf had entered their smail. When he continued to stare those blue eyes began to twinkle and Frodo's lips curved into a slight smile, before he returned his attention to Bell.

"Thank you, Mistress Gamgee. I did not think to interrupt your elevenses. Bilbo asked me to run around and ask if you could spare any yeast. He had intended to go into Hobbiton to buy some, but with the weather as it is . . ."

Bell set a cup of tea in front of their guest and pushed the honey pot towards him. Frodo eyed the nearly empty pot and shook his head. "I don't take honey, thank you." His mouth dropped open. "Oh . . . that reminds me." Tugging at his jacket pocket the tweenager pulled out a small jar, handing it over to Bell.

"Bilbo asked if you could find a use for this honey. He bought it in Hobbiton last week but we are not terribly fond of the flavour. He usually buys honey from Charlie Proudfoot and it will only be wasted if we keep it."

Bell smiled as she looked at the unbroken seal, recognising the ploy but willing to accept because she knew it was kindly meant. Both children licked their lips as they eyed the pot.

"Thank ye, young master and please pass on my thanks to Mister Bilbo. I was goin' to bake some cakes this afternoon and this'll come in right handy. I'll send Sam across wi' one later fer yer tea."

Frodo's eyes lit up at the mention of cake and Bell was reminded of warm sunshine on a golden summer day. The lad may be a bit skinny for a hobbit, but what could they expect, with him being brought up the wrong side of the river? With a bit of help from Bell, Bilbo would soon fatten the lad up and he had the makings of a handsome catch for some young lady in the future.

"Yeast, did ye say? I'm sure I've got some in the pantry. Let me check." Bell disappeared through a small door, returning a few moments later with a small covered basin. "Did he say how much he wanted?"

Frodo nodded, the scrape of a fork on china drawing the young hobbit's eyes inexorably to the contents of Sam's plate. Dark eyebrows drew together in thought as he stared at the thin pale cream and grey sliced pieces, laced with vinegar and salt. "Enough to make three loaves, he said."

Noting the direction of his gaze, Bell considered the contents of her pantry and decided she could do without elevenses today. "Have ye eaten elevenses? There's plenty o' pig bag left if ye'd like to join Sam."

Frodo blushed. "Oh, thank you for the offer, but Bilbo was about to make some bacon sandwiches." His dark brows drew together once more. "What is pig bag?"

For a moment Bell was surprised, and then she considered the young hobbit's upbringing. His diet had probably never included such items. She knew that Mr Bilbo didn't eat much offal, apart from kidneys and liver, and she didn't want to even consider what those strange folk in Brandy Hall ate.

"Why don't ye try a mouthful first. Give him a bit o' yours, Sam." She handed Frodo a clean fork from the draining board and Sam slid his plate towards their guest.

Frodo's blush deepened. "Oh, I couldn't eat some of your elevenses, Sam. Goodness knows but you've earned them with all the hard work you did this morning," he stammered.

"T'aint no trouble, Mr Frodo. I can spare a mouthful," Sam assured him.

Frodo speared a small piece and popped it in his mouth. It had a mild flavour . . . the grey layer a little dry and crumbly and the cream layer a more chewy texture, with a thin smear of fat between. The young gentlehobbit nodded in approval as he swallowed.

"It's very nice. But what is it?"

"We get it from the butcher in Hobbiton. It's a messy, smelly job preparin' an' cookin' it yerself. It's boiled pig's stomach, chopped up."

The pink tinge in Frodo's cheeks suddenly faded and he took a large swallow of strong tea. "That's interesting."

Bell rescued the used fork, throwing it in a basin of washing up water in the sink and in her chair by the fire Daisy sniggered.

"Daisy Gamgee, you hold yer tongue. Likely as not they eat different down t'other side o' the river. T'aint polite to laugh at a guest an' yer Da taught ye better manners than that." However Bell turned back to the counter by the sink to hide her own smile. She would have to remember that the young master was squeamish about such things in future. She divided her yeast and popped some in an old cup that had long since lost its handle, turning back to hand it to Frodo.

He accepted it gravely. "Thank you. I'd best get back, or Bilbo will have the bacon burned," he announced, draining his teacup and rising. Bell shook out his cloak and laid it about his shoulders, fastening the large buttons and pulling up the hood without thinking . . . treating him as one of her own. Frodo found he quite liked it and stood still to allow her to do so.

"Now ye keep that yeast inside yer cloak and don't let the snow at it. Or ye'll have bread as flat as pancakes."

"Yes, Mistress Gamgee. Goodbye."

Sam ran ahead to open the door and, with a final nod of thanks, Frodo slipped out, running as fast as he could back to the warmth of Bag End.

"Well, close the door, Sam," called Daisy, happy to be able to catch her younger brother in the same fault of which she had been found guilty. With a last glance at Frodo's retreating figure, Sam closed the door, hearing his mother.

"That'll do, Daisy. Have ye finished that collar yet?"

"No, Ma."

"Well, get a move on then . . . or Sam will have grown out o' that shirt afore ye've finished. And small stitches mind you. I'll have none o' yer cobblin'."

Sam returned to his meal, glancing at his sister, whilst trying to hide a grin, and Daisy checked that her mother's back was turned before sticking her tongue out at him.

"He's a skinny 'un," Daisy commented, mainly because she could see that Sam had taken a liking to the new Baggins. "They say he's sickly too. I like my men folk with a bit more meat on 'em," she announced, boldly.

Bell did not bother turning from her washing up. "We don't listen to nor pass on no gossip about the Baggins family, Daisy. And I should hope that ye were not takin' an interest in any men folk, whatever their build, until ye come of age, young madam." She set the freshly washed fork on the draining board once more. "He's got plenty o' time to fill out an' he'll be a good catch one day. I dare say Mister Bilbo will make sure he's well provided for. The lad's got a nice way with him an' a pleasin' face."

At mention of Frodo being "well provided for" Daisy began to re-assess her comment. Perhaps he would be worth her notice after all. She would add him to the bottom of her list of potential's. 

Bell turned and caught her daughter staring off into the fire. "Daisy Gamgee, stop yer wool gatherin' an' start sewin'."

"Yes, Ma."

Her mother sighed. Daisy was getting to that age and, not for the first time, Bell wished that all her children were as sweet natured as Sam.


	3. Broken wings

CHAPTER 3 – Broken Wings.

Bell dropped the chicken head into a dish, sighing, and Daisy hung her head. 

"I'm sorry, Ma."

"Never mind . . . can't be helped now. But next time make sure ye ask the butcher to truss it afore he weighs it. I reckon nothin' to paying fer the weight o' a head an' feet I'm not goin' ta eat. He saw ye comin', lass."

Daisy ducked her head once more and Sam hid a smile as he bent to his slate at the other end of the large scrubbed wooden table. He painstakingly formed the letter A with his stub of chalk and checked it against the one flowingly scripted on the small piece of paper on the table at his side. The young lad sighed when he compared them and wished the learning would go faster so that his letters would soon look as beautiful as Mr Frodo's.

Bell took one of the yellow feet in her fingers and slit the skin around the joint, using the sharp knife to cut the sinews before bending the foot back, slicing through the bottom layer of skin and adding the severed foot to the head in the bowl. The second foot followed the first and Daisy rushed to dispose of the evidence.

Deciding that the point had been made, Bell relented when the girl returned.

"It's alright, lass. Everyone makes mistakes. It wasn't yer first and it won't be yer last. Yer forgiven." The small sharp bladed knife was run down the skin of the neck from shoulder to end and Bell began to peel back the skin. Finding the joint between the bones at the windpipe she sliced the neck away and placed it in a fresh dish.

Her eldest daughter smiled in relief. "Thank you, Ma."

"Finish gratin' that stale bread fer the stuffin'." Bell instructed, as she turned the bird around and cut around the vent.

Daisy picked up the grater and the remains of the loaf and added crumbs to a growing mound in the basin.

Sam watched in interest as his mother slid her fingers inside the bird and moved them around a bit, then she seemed to grasp something right up at the neck end and began to slowly draw her hand out. With it came all the inner organs of the bird. Curiosity got the better of him and he left his seat to stand at his mother's elbow. Bell noticed his presence.

"There now, Sam. All that came out o' that bird. An most o' it we can't eat." She fished around in the mound of sweet smelling offal.

"Why not, Ma?" Sam asked curiously, watching as she severed the tiny heart and added it to the neck, sitting in a dish. That bit he recognised from the shape. It was the same shape as the beast heart they sometimes had . . . although it was much, much smaller.

Bell cut away the liver, carefully dissecting and discarding the gall bladder. "Well, a lot o' this is used fer digestin' its food so its got half eaten stuff in it. Ya' don't want to be eatin' that. An some o' it is very nasty tastin'." She pointed to the tiny gall bladder she had just discarded. Bell added the gizzard and kidneys to the heap in the bowl and then waited while daisy removed the wooden board to dispose of the rest.

Sam's mother took up a waiting damp cloth and wiped around inside the now empty cavity. She slipped fingers in either side of the vent and pulled out two pads of fat, which she laid on one side to sit on the bird's breast when it was put in the oven. 

Daisy returned and began to add warm water to the stuffing mixture, filling the room with the smell of sage and onion. Her mother looked up at the smell.

"I hope ye added suet to that mix otherwise it'll be a stodgy mess."

"I did, Ma," Daisy assured her mother hurriedly. She was not about to make any more mistakes today, especially with Sam watching.

Bell caught Sam frowning at the carcass. "What is it, lad?"

"What's that red mark on that thing on the side?"

His mother looked down in confusion, trying to find the source of his question. Sure enough, on one wing . . . about half way down the last set of bones, was a bruise. Bell rubbed it between her fingers, feeling the grating of broken bone.

"Poor thing had a broken wing. Mayhap that's why it were killed . . . farmer put it out o' its misery." 

Bell accepted the stuffing bowl from Daisy and began to fill the cavity, after folding the empty skin of the neck over the hole at the other end of the body.

They all jumped at a loud thumping on the door, and for a moment they were too stunned to react. Then Bell ran to open it, wiping her hands on her apron as she went. Whoever it was they were obviously agitated because they banged again before Bell could cover the short distance from the table. She flung open the door to find Master Bilbo leaning, gasping on the doorframe, his face ashen despite the sheen of sweat covering it.

"Why, whatever is it Mr Bilbo?" asked Bell, reaching out to help him across the threshold. But Bilbo waved her off, finally finding the breath to speak.

"Frodo . . . Frodo fell. Think he's broken his arm . . . possibly his wrist." He took another deep breath. "Need one of your lads to . . . fetch doctor . . . if you can spare them."

Bell blinked. "They've all gone off to help farmer Brownlock with his harvest. There's only me an' Daisy an' Sam. An' Sam's too young."

Bilbo sagged against the doorframe. "I had forgotten. I can't leave the lad. I'll try further down the row." He made to leave but Bell stopped him, untying her apron and throwing it onto the corner of the table.

"They've all gone to the harvest." With surprising strength she turned Bilbo around. "You go fetch the doctor an' I'll go sit wi' Master Frodo."

Bilbo sighed with relief and managed a weak smile. "Thank you, Bell. You're a treasure and the Gaffer is lucky to have you."

Bell blushed and pushed him lightly on the back of the shoulders. "Get on wi' ye! He knows what he's got. Now off ye go."

With one final smile Bilbo headed off down the path at a trot. Bell turned back to the smial to find her two children still open-mouthed. She stuck her hands on her hips.

"Would ye look at the pair o' ye. Faces fit to catch flies." Two sets of jaws snapped shut and Sam ran up to his mother, brown eyes threatening tears.

"Are they goin' to kill Mr Frodo?"

Bell knelt down and gathered him up. "Gracious no, lad. Whatever makes ye ask that. He's just broke an arm. He'll be fine."

Sam sobbed against her shoulder. "But they killed the chicken. I don't want 'em to kill Mr Frodo . . . he's my friend."

Bell sighed and squeezed him before pushing him away to look into his tearful soft brown eyes. "They only do that wi' chicken's, love. The doctor will put a splint on young Master Frodo's arm to hold it still while it heals, an' he'll be right as rain in a few weeks." She reached out and brushed away his tears with her fingers, leaning forward to kiss his forehead as the little face cleared. 

"Now . . . ye'll have to help here while I go an' sit wi' Master Frodo. Think ye can do that?"

Sam pulled himself up to his full height . . . which wasn't very much . . . even for a hobbit. "Yes, Ma."

Bell gave him one last squeeze and stood up, looking across the room at Daisy. 

"Finish stuffin' that bird, then truss it an' put it in the oven. Ye've seen me do it often enough an' I wont shout if ye don't get it right this time." She turned Sam and pushed him back towards the table, still addressing her daughter. "When ye've done that ye an' Sam start the vegetables an' get 'em on to boil when the bird's near ready. An' don't give Sam that sharp knife. He'll manage well enough wi' one o' the others. An' clean out the gizzard and put the giblets to simmer fer the gravy."

Daisy blinked, her face filling with panic. "But I ain't never got a whole meal ready on me own. What if things ain't ready an' the bird is cooked?"

"Then take the bird out an' we'll eat it cold. It won't come to no harm."

Before Daisy could say more, Bell pulled the door closed and hurried off up the path to Bag End.

She found the door open and headed down the hall, trying to remember which of the many doors lining it led to Master Frodo's room. After a moment it became easy enough to find and Bell just followed the sound of soft sobbing. She found Frodo, lying atop his bed and curled on his side, his left arm cradled in his right. 

The boy looked up when he heard her steps and sniffed, then turned his head into the pillows to hide his tears. 

"There now, lad. Yer Uncle Bilbo has gone fer the doctor an' I've come to sit wi' ye until they get back." She settled on the bed and combed her fingers through his thick chestnut curls and he turned those huge blue eyes up to her pleadingly.

"Please . . . I'm cold." And to confirm his statement his body shivered.

Bell tutted at herself. Of course he would be cold. His body had just had a nasty shock. You silly woman, Bell Gamgee . . . anyone'd think you'd had no young un's o' yer own. She rose and set to making him comfortable and within a few minutes Frodo was tucked up in his bed, supported by a mound of pillows and his clothes loosened. Bell laid a damp cloth on his brow and slipped a pillow gently beneath his left arm and Frodo sighed in relief at the temporary reduction in his pain.

The cornflower blue eyes, which had clenched shut as soon as she had moved him to put him to bed, opened once more. "Thank you, Mistress Gamgee."

"Yer welcome, lad." Bell settled on the bed once more and used another damp cloth to wipe his tearstained face. "However did ye manage to fall? Did ye trip?"

Frodo made to shake his head and stopped when the cool compress threatened to slip over his eyes. Bell adjusted it. "I fell out of a tree."

"A tree? Whatever were ye doin' up a tree?"

His reply was rather sheepish. "Reading."

Bell fought hard to suppress a smile. "Well now, I've found most people use a chair, although I confess I've seen 'em reading on the floor. But up a tree is a new one on me. Is it somethin' they do down over the river?" 

She would believe just about anything about what they did down there. They were strange folk, those Brandybucks, and Bilbo had done right by the lad, bringing him back up to Hobbiton to live amongst proper folk.

Frodo gave a little laugh, wincing when the consequent movement of his chest and shoulder jostled his arm. "No. It's just something I do. Usually I don't have any trouble . . . and I hadn't climbed high. But the book slipped off my lap and when I reached to catch it I lost my balance."

"Well, it's a hard lesson to learn and mayhap I'm takin' a liberty . . . but I can't help feelin' it were a warnin' to ye to stay out o' trees. T'ain't natural for a hobbit."

Frodo smiled. "You may be right."

Bell recognised the look in his eyes. She'd seen it in her young ones too often. He'd be back up a tree as soon as the splints came off. Well. It was none of her business.

"Would ye like a sip o' water, lad? Ye look a mite feverish." Although Frodo's face was ashen beneath his summer tan Bell could see two spots of pink colour in his cheeks and his face was bedewed with perspiration.

Frodo looked as though he were going to give a grateful, "Yes please." Then he looked down at his injured arm and wrist and back at Bell. "No thank you. I'm alright."

Bell sniffed and filled a cup from the jug at Frodo's bedside. This young Baggins was a stubborn one. "Nonsense. Yer burnin' up." She held the cup to his lips. "Pride's a good thing, in its place but the sick bed ain't no place fer it." When Frodo made no move to open his lips she met his gaze squarely. "T'ain't no shame to accept help when you're poorly. Especially from folk's that love ye. Love needs room to be able to show itself."

Now it was Frodo's turn to be surprised and he opened his mouth obediently, greedily sipping the cool water. Bell simply nodded in approval. He was stubborn but teachable. 

They both looked to the door as the sound of a conversation and footsteps announced the return of Bilbo with the doctor. Frodo's face filled with relief when he saw his uncle and Bilbo came to sit on the other side of the bed to Bell. The older gentlehobbit assessed his nephew and turned to Bell.

"Bless you, Bell. I don't know how you managed it but he looks better already." He turned back to Frodo and smiled, reaching out to stroke the lad's hair.

"I only made him comfortable," Bell announced, as she rose to give the doctor access to his patient. As she got to the door she turned, searching for those blue eyes. "Now ye mind what I said, young master. An' I'll send Sam across wi' a bite to eat later. I doubt yer uncle will have the time to cook today."

Frodo smiled. "I will. And thank you."

Bell nodded in approval and turned back to her own brood.


	4. Tendin with Taters

CHAPTER 4 – Tendin' with Taters

The table was full; a line of bottoms filling the benches either side. But there were three empty spaces.

Bell stood at the range, stirring a small pan, with Sam watching closely. She fished out the chicken giblets, leaving them on a small plate that Daisy provided. Bell forked up the tiny liver and offered it to a pleasantly surprised Sam, who chewed it delightedly. That titbit was usually reserved for the Gaffer but Sam would have to wait for his dinner until he had run his errand so Bell knew that her husband would not object on this occasion. There was, after all, no sacrifice greater to a young hobbit than to ask him to delay eating when food was on the table.

Bell left the pan to bubble and, with two large forks, lifted the roasted chicken onto a serving plate, which Daisy laid before her Da, following it with tureens of piping hot vegetables. Meanwhile, Bell added the meat juices from the roasting tin to the giblet broth. She handed Sam a cup of white liquid.

"I've another job fer ye, lad. This is flour and water. I want ye to trickle it very slowly into the gravy as I stir. Do you think ye could do that?"

Sam swallowed the last of the tiny liver. "Yes Ma."

Behind him he could hear plates being filled and knew that his Da was making sure that there would be one ready for him when he returned from Bag End.

Bell began to stir the broth briskly and Sam trickled the flour paste in very slowly, watching in fascination as the broth thickened and turned a pale toffee colour, the fat from the roast forming sparkling lace curtains on its surface. Her family was firmly convinced that Bell Gamgee made the best gravy in the Shire.

"Well done, lad. Now fetch me that little dish o' mashed potato and we'll pour some o' this over it fer Master Frodo." Sam obliged, his mouth watering as he watched the golden liquid being spooned over a little mound of creamy mashed potato. There were those who argued that Bell Gamgee also made the creamiest mashed potato in the Shire . . . adding milk, butter and pepper and mashing them until they were smooth as silk. If those arguers all belonged to her own family it mattered little to Bell.

Daisy bustled up with a jug and the rest of the contents of the pan were used to fill it. Bell set the bowl of potato and gravy on a couple of tea towels spread out on the wooden counter, waiting. Sam covered the bowl with a plate and Bell wrapped it all carefully in the towels to keep it warm.

"Off ye go, then, Sam. Quick as ye can so it stays hot, but don't ye go trippin'. One broken arm on the Hill is quite enough." She ushered Sam out of the door and watched a moment as the lad set off at a quick walk towards Bag End.

She returned to the table as Daisy began to cut up the chicken on little Marigold's plate. Collecting Sam's filled plate, she covered it with a bowl and set it atop a pan of boiling water to keep warm. If she knew Sam he would probably stay to say hello to the ailing Master Frodo.

Daisy snorted. "Fancy breaking an arm. What was he doin' up a tree, anyway? No sensible hobbit would be climbing trees."

It was the Gaffer who answered firmly. "Taint none o' yer business to ask and taint none o' yer place to comment on the doin's o' yer betters, Daisy Gamgee. Ye remember yer place, my girl. The Baggins' have always done well by this family. 'Tis the wages Mr Baggins' pays me that's put this meal in front o' ye and don't ye forget it . . . an' he pays above the goin' rate fer the job. Young Master Frodo deserves the same respect."

Bell nodded in approval, having been about to say something similar, and took up her place opposite her husband. There were times when those rules could be excepted but she wasn't about to tell Daisy that.

0o0

Sam knocked gently at the big green door and it was opened within moments by Mister Bilbo Baggins.

"Hello Sam. Is that the potato from your Ma?" He made to take it from Sam but the young hobbit relinquished it very reluctantly.

"Could I visit Mr Frodo for a bit? . . . I won't stay too long. I expect he's not feelin' very well at the minute." 

"I'm sure he'd love to see you, but won't your dinner be getting cold?"

"It's alright. Ma said she'd keep it warm fer me."

Bilbo considered for a moment. Sam was much younger than Frodo but he was a quiet and thoughtful lad, much like the younger Baggins. Perhaps he would help to take Frodo's mind off the pain until Bilbo could make up the tea the doctor had left.

"Very well, Sam lad. You can take in the potato. He'll be more likely to eat it if you're there. The doctor says he'll be feeling right as ninepence by tomorrow but he's a mite feverish at the moment and it's making his stomach a bit offish. You may be better at tempting him than I."

He led the way to the kitchen, where he unwrapped the dish and placed it on a small tray with an equally small bowl of custard. Bilbo inhaled approvingly.

"I do believe your Ma makes the best gravy I have ever tasted."

"Yes sir. She does," affirmed Sam, quite willing to agree the merits of his mother's cooking.

Bilbo took up the tray and led the way to Frodo's bedroom and Sam opened the door for him.

Frodo was sitting propped up by several pillows. His right arm was in a sling, made from one of Bilbo's expensive silk scarves and Sam could see the hard outline of splints beneath the fabric. The left wrist also sported a light bandage. An open book lay upon the lad's lap, although when they entered the room his eyes were closed, but he opened them when he heard their footsteps.

The blue eyes were dull and pain shadowed and the face, which had picked up a healthy golden colour from days out walking in the summer sun, was now ashen and covered in a fine sheen of perspiration. 

"Here we are lad. Some nice smooth mashed potato with gravy, courtesy of Mistress Gamgee, and a little custard . . . nothing too heavy on your stomach. And here's young Sam Gamgee to help you with it." Bilbo set the tray on Frodo's lap as Sam moved the book.

Frodo looked at the tray listlessly. "I'm not very hungry, really, Uncle."

"Nonsense lad. And the doctor said you couldn't take the medicine for the pain on an empty stomach. So eat up while I go and get it ready," Bilbo replied . . . his tone brooking no further argument on the matter and as he left he handed Sam a spoon. "He has trouble managing with his left hand . . . sprained the wrist. You'll have to feed him." He left quickly, closing the door firmly behind him.

Sam looked about. There was a chair by the bed but he was too small to be able to reach Frodo's mouth from there. Ever practical, he shrugged his shoulders and clambered onto the big bed, sinking into the soft feather mattress. He wished his own bed were as soft as this. He would never want to get up again. Frodo winced a little as the movement jostled him.

"Sorry, Mr Frodo."

"It's alright, Sam."

Sam dipped his spoon in the potato and held it to Frodo's lips. At first he thought the older hobbit was going to refuse but, after a moment, the pale lips parted and took the offered morsel. He blinked in surprise.

The potato was as smooth as could be, not a lump to be found. And it tasted of butter, with a slight edge of salt. The gravy was smooth too, mildly flavoured with chicken. It slid down his throat with little effort and his tender stomach showed no signs of rejecting it. When Sam offered another spoonful there was no hesitation.

"I feel such an idiot, having to be fed like a baby," he confessed between mouthfuls. 

"My Da says there ain't nothin' to be ashamed o' in acceptin' help when ye need it. Ye can't help it, and ye've got to eat," Sam announced, sagely.

Frodo smiled, in spite of his pain. The arm was throbbing, his wrist ached and the combination of that, with a mild fever, was also making his head ache. But Sam was trying hard not to jostle him, now that he had managed to get onto the bed, and he was keeping his voice quiet, as though he knew.

The stomach, which had been complaining only a few minutes ago, was now settling. Perhaps Bilbo had been right and hunger, rather than fever had caused the discomfort there. He had not eaten since first breakfast and had been in too much pain to bother over much about anything else until the doctor had set his arm.

Sam could stand it no longer. Despite his Da's words curiosity got the better of him and he could not resist asking, "Would ye mind if I asked a question, Mister Frodo?" 

"No Sam. What is it?"

"Why was ye climbin' a tree?"

Frodo chuckled. "It's a habit I got into when I lived at Brandy Hall. I like to read but the Hall was so busy that I was always getting interrupted. I discovered that if I climbed a tree I could be out of sight and enjoy my book in peace. It's not a problem here, of course, but old habits die hard."

Sam nodded. "Will ye be stoppin' climbin' trees in future, then?"

Frodo thought for a moment. "I don't know, Sam. I quite like it . . . you can see so much more of the world from a tree and I would so like to see the world one day. I wonder if that is why Big Folk travel so much . . . because they can see farther and want to go and visit the places they can see."

His helper absorbed that piece of information and filed it for future reference, as he moved on to attack the custard. They were nearly finished when Bilbo returned, with two cups.

As he crossed the bedroom Bilbo took in the scene. Sam was settled on the bed, facing Frodo, offering him the last mouthful of custard. Both bowls were empty and Frodo was resting comfortably against his pillows. Some of the dullness about his eyes had gone, he was smiling gently and his face did not look as ashen. It seemed that Sam Gamgee was good for him. Perhaps, when Sam grew up a bit, they would make good friends.

"Here we are, lad. There's the willow bark tea and some milk to wash it down. Two big swallows and the medicine will be gone." He handed over the smaller of the cups to Sam, who put it to Frodo's lips at once, tipping in the suggested large mouthful. Frodo's eyes widened and he swallowed quickly, his mouth turning down at the corners in an involuntary grimace. Sam gave him no time to pause as he delivered the second mouthful. He had been given this tea once when he had broken a finger and he knew it tasted very bitter. As soon as it was swallowed Bilbo handed Sam the milk and Frodo drank it greedily, desperate to get rid of the horrible taste of the medicine.

"Well done, Frodo," Bilbo praised. "Now let's get this tray out of the way and you can take a little nap." He removed the empty tray and Sam clambered down as gently as he could. The older Baggins removed some of the pillows and helped Frodo scoot down beneath the covers, tucking them under his chin as soon as he was comfortable. Blue eyes closed and Bilbo nodded to Sam to follow him from the room. Frodo was exhausted by pain and shock and the willow bark tea would ease him enough to let him sleep now.

As they reached the door a small voice whispered, "Thank you, Sam. And please tell your Ma that she makes the best mashed potato and gravy I've ever tasted."

Sam blushed. "I will, Mr Frodo, an' I hope yer feelin' better soon."

0o0

Bell and Daisy were washing and drying pots when Sam got home and the Gaffer was playing with Marigold on the floor by the fire.

His Ma brought the warmed meal to the table and Sam tucked in. "Mr Frodo says to thank ye and that ye make the best mashed potato and gravy he's ever tasted," Sam reported.

Bell preened a little, although all she said was, "Well, he's probably never had proper mashed potato an' giblet gravy, livin' the wrong side o' the river as he was. But I'm pleased he liked 'em."

"How's he doin'?" asked the Gaffer.

"He's broken his right arm an' hurt the left un but the doctor says he'll be right as ninepence tomorrow. Mr Bilbo gave him some o' that horrible willow bark tea an' he was goin' to sleep when I left."

Bell nodded approvingly. "Sleep an' good food's the best thing fer him. I'll send ye across with some sweet potato puddin' tomorrow. That'll set him right."

Sam grinned. Oh yes. Ma's sweet potato puddin' would set anyone right, and if they were lucky, they would all get a taste of it.


	5. Marriage and Mathoms

CHAPTER 5 – Marriage and Mathoms 

It was full dark as Hamfast reached the lane that wound about the hill to Bagshot Row. Candles burned in a couple of the windows of Bag End and Bilbo could be glimpsed at his desk in the study. The rest of the hill was dark, the occupants having followed the old rule of going to bed at sundown and getting up at sunrise. Candles and oil cost money and firesides were all well and good but gave only light enough to chat by. There was yet one light on Bagshot Row, however. A small flickering candle glowed welcome in the window of the Gamgee home. The Gaffer smiled, knowing that Bell would have water heated for his wash, a bowl of stew and fresh baked bread ready for the table . . . and a warm hug.

He let himself in, quietly, aware that all the young ones would be abed by now and was a little surprised when Bell jumped up from her chair by the fire and spun towards the sink, a pool of pale fabric landing at her feet. She cleared her throat before speaking. 

"Did ye get Widow Bolger's garden cleared o' weeds, then?"

Curious, Hamfast rounded the large, scrubbed table and joined his wife at the sink, where she was filling a basin with warm water from a jug and laying out a towel. When her husband turned her about to face him, Bell realised that standing before the candle stump on the windowsill had not been a good idea. Its tiny flicker was easily enough for her husband to see the glistening tracks of tears on her cheeks and she looked down at her apron, drying her hands.

"What's the matter, Bell? Is somethin' wrong wi' one o' the young uns?"

Bell looked up at once, her eyes wide. "Oh, no, love. All the children are tucked up warm in their beds. Though Daisy had a bit of a spit when it came her turn. That lass is getting far too sassy. She wanted to wear my weddin' dress to Molly Brockbucks birthday party. My weddin' dress no less! As if her best yellow wasn't good enough."

Hamfast grunted in understanding. Daisy was of an age where she liked to think she was all grown up but was still capable of acting like a five-year-old when she didn't get things all her own way. He turned to the sink and Bell helped him out of his jacket. 

"Thought ye'd been savin' that fer her to wear on her weddin' day," he murmured as he rolled up his shirt sleeves and picked up the sliver of soap on the drainer, dipping his hands in the water and watching it turn cloudy with the muck. He began scouring his hands, working up a good lather with the soap. "Just say the word, Bell, an' she'll learn she's not too grown for a good old fashioned spankin' if she's playin' you up."

Bell turned to the fire, uncovering a pan of coney stew and stirring it, before bending to recover the large heap of fabric on the floor and lay it lovingly upon her chair.

"Don't fret. I've got her measure."

Hamfast bent to scrub at his face, making sure to attack his ears and the back of his neck. "What's troubling ye then? It takes a lot to get my Bell down."

Settling on one of the benches flanking the table, Bell stared at the pale cloth on her chair. "It's a long time since I've looked on that dress and I fancied havin' just a peek. Just to remember," she replied, wistfully.

Hamfast turned back to her, drying his neck on the clean but rough towel, noting that it had been warming before the fire for him. He smiled. "It was a grand day, wasn't it? And you were a stunner . . . still are." He came to sit beside her and Bell leaned into his shoulder as he wrapped a beefy arm about her. "I bet you'd still be a beauty in all that pale green. Like a fresh spring mornin' you looked."

Bell batted at his hand, where it was making far too free with her bodice laces. "I think I'd have to let it out a bit, love," she chuckled. "I've had too many babies since then. And I don't think anyone could have ever called me a beauty."

Hamfast continued to try to work his fingers inside Bells bodice. "Oh, ye were always a nice handful, lass and ye were ever a beauty in my eyes. 'Tis proper for a hobbit to be well rounded. And I can't say as how I didn't enjoy helpin' ye fill out."

Bell pushed him away in mock horror. "Ham Gamgee! Whatever would we say if one o' the children came in? Keep yer hands . . . and yer tongue . . . still." The words were said with a smile but there was a flatness to them that grated on her husband. Bell began to ladle stew into a large basin, setting it on the table at his side. "Anyway . . . there's nobody goin' to wear that dress any more. It's ruined." Her voice was level but Hamfast could see her hand shaking as she laid a plate of bread next to the stew.

He grabbed her wrist lightly to stop her turning away and his voice was gruff with concern. "What do you mean . . . ruined?"

Bell reached across and pulled the pile of fabric into her lap as she sat at his side once more holding up what was, now that he looked at it more closely, a sleeve made of shimmering fabric. It was difficult to see in the poor light but Gaffer knew that sunlight would show it to be the pale green of frosted grass on an early spring morning. The firelight glimmered through it.

"I don't remember it havin' lace on the sleeve . . . although I do remember a lot o' lace," he added with a wink.

"The lace was on the petticoat, love," Bell chided. "And this isn't lace" She swallowed. "It's moths."

"Moths?" So this was what had been bothering her. Well, he couldn't blame her. The material had been bought in Michel Delving by Bell's family, and it had been the talk of the Shire for a long time after the wedding. "But I thought ye had it all bundled up in paper and tucked away." Hamfast slipped his arm about his wife's waist again and she melted into his shoulder, silent tears sliding down her cheeks.

"Seems the paper got torn and that's how they got in. Oh love . . . it's ruined. I don't reckon there's enough decent material left to even make Daisy a bodice. I knew I was never goin' to get into it again but I thought I could at least alter it and pass it down to our lass. Seems its not to be."

"I'm sorry, Bell love. Mayhap that dress was only meant to be seen once . . . on the comeliest lass in the Shire."

Hamfast hugged her close as he heard Bell's soft answering snort. "Yer a soft old fool, but I love ye for it." She wiped her eyes on her apron and wriggled out of his grasp. "Come on and eat yer supper, afore it gets cold." 

Shaking out the remnants of the dress she held it up critically in the firelight . . . the practical mother once more, now that she had shed her tears. "There's a piece here on the skirt that doesn't look too bad. Mayhap I could make a pillowslip from it." 

Hamfast chuckled. "The Gamgees wi' silk pillow-slips. We'd be the talk o' the Shire." He turned around on the bench and tucked into his stew while Bell folded the dress thoughtfully and laid it back upon her chair. 

Maybe green silk was not quite proper for pillow-slips after all. She wouldn't want folk to think that the Gamgees had ideas above their station.

0o0

Bell handed Daisy the last of the cups to be dried and turned to the pantry, producing one of her grandma's best plates, covered with a piece of muslin. Sam licked his lips as he saw two large pieces of his Ma's birthday cake sitting proudly beneath the cloth. His mother bent to pinch his cheek.

"Ye can put yer eyes back in yer head, Samwise. That cake is fer Mister Bilbo and Young Master Frodo. Ye've had your piece. In fact I seem to recollect that ye've had two pieces."

"Aye . . . but it was a grand birthday cake." Sam's eyes stayed firmly fixed upon the delicacy despite his mother's warning . . . although he would never actually have dared to take a piece. It was Ma's cake and her birthday present to them all.

Bell took off her apron, laying it on the table with the plate and then smoothing back the odd sandy curl that had strayed out of her carefully applied combs. "It was, wasn't it? And all the better fer having my helper to mix it fer me."

Sam sat straighter on the bench and Daisy snorted. "He only creamed the powdered sugar and butter. Takes more than that to back a cake," came her haughty comment.

Before her younger brother could step in to defend himself his mother saved him the effort. "A task taken on willingly is better than a task done because it was ordered and makes fer lighter bakin' my lass. Mayhap if ye put a little more love into yer cakes they'd come out a might less sad."

Sam resisted the temptation to stick his tongue out at his sister but Daisy sniffed anyway. She continued putting away the clean crockery, however, and Sam rested his small chin upon his hands on the table, still staring at the wedges of cake shrouded beneath their fine muslin canopy. Recognising his mood his Gaffer seated himself on the bench at the other side of the table. "Out with it, lad. Somethin's been gnawin' at ye all through the party."

Sam's hazel eyes met those deep, earth brown eyes of his Da. "I still don't know why Master Frodo and Mr Bilbo couldn't be invited to Ma's party. The whole of Bagshot Row was here."

The Gaffer took the small hand of his youngest son in his, seeing already the ingrained dirt that came from working with trowel and plant, the calluses on palms from hours of turning earth for the autumn vegetable planting.

"It wouldn't be proper havin' a gentlehobbit mixing social with us common folk."

Sam shook his head in confusion. "But Mr Bilbo and Master Frodo are often poppin' over for a chat and I've had second breakfast up at Bag End once or twice."

Hamfast stole a sidelong look at his wife as she reappeared from their bedroom, with two small parcels wrapped in brown paper and yellow ribbon that she set on the table with the cake.

Ham's face was sad but firm set. "There's a world o' difference between sharin' a cup o' tea and a slice o' bread and butter wi' friends and introducin' those high livin' friends to the rest o' yer family and expectin' everyone to get on. Highborn folks like Mr Bilbo and the Young Master don't get free and easy with the likes o' their servants. It's not proper."

Sam grimaced. There was that phrase that all the grown ups kept using so freely. "Proper." He glanced up at his Da. "Who makes up their mind as to what's proper and what's not?"

His question drew a short silence and then his Da gave another well-used answer. "Hobbits decide . . . and they decide by what's always been proper afore. It's tradition. Tradition allows a chap to know exactly where he is in the grand plan and where he's going. And that's what's kept the Shire going all these years. Things just are . . . as they always were and they always will be."

A tear trickled down Sam's cheek as he picked at a bit of icing that had smeared upon his sleeve. His Ma came to stand behind him and kiss his ear. "Well. We couldn't invite 'em to the party but we can take a bit o' the party to them. Come on Sam. You can carry the cake."

Sam lifted the cake with all the care he would have given a bowl full of his best agate marbles. At a glare from her mother, Daisy opened the door to allow them egress, her fingers still stroking the long pale green silk sash that had been her mother's present to her. It would look very fine indeed about the waist of her best yellow dress at Molly's party next week. She closed the door indolently behind them as the two made their way up the hill in golden evening light.

Bell paused to comb her fingers through Sam's wayward hair before knocking lightly upon the bright green door of Bag End. It was a delighted Frodo who admitted them to the grandly appointed hallway.

"Happy Birthday, Mistress Gamgee. And many more of them." The Young Master smiled. It seemed that the dark hall was washed with the warm sunshine of those eyes and then the spell was broken as Frodo turned to his uncle, just entering from the study.

"Happy Birthday, Bell. I'll not ask which one it is this year, for I know ladies are apt to get cagey about such things after a certain age." He winked and turned towards the sitting room, waving them through. "Come in and sit down while Frodo makes some tea, for if my eyes do not deceive me there is cake beneath that cover. And if it's cake made by the famous Bell Gamgee it needs eating quickly, before it floats away."

"Get on with ye!" Bell chided, although Sam noticed that she walked a little taller at the compliment. "I'm sorry ye couldn't come to the family party but I didn't think it right that ye should be forgotten. I hope as how I'm not bein' too forward in sayin' this, but ye and the Young Master have become like family to me and mine, even if we was brought up different. And I hope ye don't take no offence in that."

Bilbo only smiled as Frodo re-appeared with a tray, on which could be seen all the accoutrements for tea, along with a knife to cut the cake, and four plates to put it on. "I take no offence, Bell. In fact, I take it as an honour . . . as I am sure Frodo does." 

Frodo's grin widened. "I can't think of a family that I'd rather be adopted into."

Bilbo splashed a few drops of tea into one of the saucers but quickly recovered himself, as Frodo turned two giant pieces of cake into four reasonably sized pieces and laid them before everyone. For several minutes all conversation ceased as they got on with the important job of eating and drinking.

With a satisfied sigh, Bilbo leaned back in his chair and took a good swallow of his tea. "I was right, Bell. That truly was a cake worthy of an elven baker."

"It certainly was, Mistress Gamgee. Thank you very much for thinking of us."

Bell blushed. Had the compliment been offered in her own kitchen she would have accepted it willingly enough but sitting in this grand room, with a carpet beneath her toes, she felt a bit embarrassed. Mister Baggins was, after all, a wealthy and much travelled gentlehobbit who had doubtless tasted many a fine cake in his day. 

"It weren't as grand as you're probably used to but I'm not much for fancy cookin'. A good plain sponge cake wi' a bit o' cream and raspberry jam is all I'm up to. But I thank you for the compliment."

She reached into the pocket of her best frock and brought out two small parcels, which she set upon the table before her hosts. Although they were only wrapped in brown paper, Bell had managed to find some ribbon in her sewing box so each was neatly tied with a yellow bow.

"What's this? Birthday presents for us? Bell, you shouldn't have," Bilbo exclaimed, although he picked up the little package and began to untie the bow. From out the paper fell a large pale green silk handkerchief, one corner neatly embroidered with "BB". Frodo's package revealed a similar handkerchief, embroidered with "FB". Both Baggins smiled broadly.

"Thank you, Mistress Gamgee. This will look very well in the breast pocket of my green suit," Frodo assured her, fingering the delicate fabric.

Bilbo bent to examine his, well pleased with the fine needlework. There was something familiar about it though. Bell watched as his brow furrowed in concentration, trying to drag a memory to the fore. Bilbo Baggins was noted for his elegant waistcoats and he could spot an expensive fabric from quite a distance. This was a good silk and must have cost Bell a pretty penny. Suddenly, his face cleared.

"Why this is the same fabric your wedding dress was made of. I remember it well."

Ever willing to help and praise him Ma's cleverness, Sam cleared up the mystery. "That's because it's made from Ma's dress, Sir. She was keepin' it but the moths got at it an' she's used the bits to make all sorts o' pretty presents."

Frodo watched as Bell Gamgee's normally affable face stiffened. She was proud of having been able to make use of the undamaged bits of fabric, but she was not particularly happy about such gentlehobbits knowing that their fine silk handkerchiefs were made from one of her old dresses.

Sensing the atmosphere at once, Sam shuffled in his chair and began to make a careful study of his fingers. The youngster was not quite sure what he had said wrong, but he was painfully aware that he had caused his mother some distress and he wished that the floor would open up and swallow him whole. Frodo glanced at him in sympathy.

"If that is the case, then this gift is to be doubly precious," announced Bilbo, before the silence grew too solid. "Every time I see this I will be reminded of how grand you looked that day."

Frodo's quiet voice followed swift on his uncle's. "And I am honoured that you would think to give me a piece of such a treasured possession."

The air cleared at once and Bell smiled in relief. "I was hopin' ye'd like the material, Sirs. Ye've both been good to me and mine and I wanted to let ye know how much I appreciate that."

"The feeling is mutual," Bilbo replied, folding the handkerchief carefully and handing back the yellow ribbon. Bell made to refuse but Bilbo put it in her palm and Frodo followed suit. "A present from us to Daisy. They'll look well in those pretty brown curls."

Bell pushed them into her pocket. "I'll see she gets them, and the message. Now we must be away. My Marigold needs bathin' afore I try and put her to bed. Ye should see the mess she got herself into wi' that cake."

She rose and Bilbo escorted her to the door, Sam following meekly and silently on her heels. The usual pleasantries were exchanged and then Sam and Bell were walking back down the hill. Before they were out of sight of Bag End Sam was crying silently and once into the lane, a concerned Bell drew him to the grass verge and sat down.

"What ever is the matter, Sam, love?" His mother pulled a hanky out of her pocket and began to wipe at his face.

"I'm sorry, Ma," the little voice wailed. "I didn't think afore I spoke. Da's always tellin' me to do that and I forgot."

Bell gathered her little lad into her lap and tucked his head beneath her chin. "Oh, Sam love. Ye didn't say nothin' wrong. Ye told the truth and ye should never be ashamed o' that. If anyone should be sorry it's me. Pride has its place but too much o' it can be a bad thing and I let it get the better o' me." As she spoke she rocked him gently, kissing his curls until the sobs finally subsided. Bell tilted his face up and was not surprised to see sleepy hazel eyes.

"I'm sorry I hurt you, lad. Come on. Let's get home. We've both had a long and busy day." She set her youngest son on his feet and stood, making sure to take his hand as they walked back to the smial.

Things were quiet when they entered the kitchen for it was, indeed, late and even the older children were abed. It may have been a birthday celebration today but tomorrow would be another workday and even Marigold had been put to bed by Daisy. If Hamfast noticed that his son had been crying, a quick shake of the head from his wife told him to keep silent about it, and Bell set too warming some milk for Sam while the lad put on his nightshirt. 

When he was settled at the table with a mug, Bell disappeared for a moment. Returning, she laid a small square of pale green silk before her son and Sam glanced up in surprise. He lowered his mug and wiped his palms upon his shirt before touching the fine thing. Open, it revealed itself to be another handkerchief, but this time with "SG" embroidered in one corner.

"I was goin' to keep it until ye were older but I think ye know how to look after it."

Tears trickled down Sam's face again, but he was smiling as he used his sleeve to dry his eyes. Then he folded his precious handkerchief carefully on Ma's spotless kitchen table. 


	6. A Mother's Touch

Chapter 6 – A Mother's Touch.

Frodo hesitated before the door to number 3 Bagshot Row. A light spring breeze ruffled his hair and he turned his head in irritation as a few stray strands of fringe got caught in his eyelashes and whipped across his high cheekbones. Perhaps it was too long. But why couldn't Bilbo cut it? 

A loud, "Ouch . . . Daisy!" came from beyond the yellow door and Frodo took an involuntary step backwards. Maybe Bilbo could find someone else to cut his nephew's hair . . . anyone but Daisy. Maybe it wasn't that long at all. The conversation beyond the door continued at a loud volume and Frodo grimaced.

"Good grief, girl. Ye've taken half me ear off."

"Serves ye right for movin'. I told ye to sit still." Came Daisy's shrill reply, with more than a little sadistic glee.

"Come here and let me look. Tush lad. 'Tis nothin but a clip. Ye'll live. Go on with ye." Bell's softer but firm voice encouraged. "Now off ye go to help yer Gaffer and young Sam with the taters at Bag End." 

Too late, Frodo turned to leave but the path to the gate was exposed and he had no sooner turned on his heel than Halfred threw open the door, swinging his work jacket and rolling up his sleeves. Frodo's eyes were drawn inexorably to the small drop of blood at the tip of Halfred's left ear.

"Oh! Mornin' young Master Frodo. I nearly bowled ye over. Didn't hear ye knock."

"Errr. No. I was just about to knock when you came to the door."

Halfred and Frodo were near enough in height and the Gamgee lad leaned close. "Don't let Daisy loose on yer hair. Ye'll look like a half-drowned kitten when she's finished." He half turned and shouted over his shoulder, "I've seen better jobs done on hedges." 

Both he and Frodo dodged when a damp towel flew towards them, followed by Bell's raised voice. "Halfred . . . you stop your teasin' and Daisy . . . stop throwin' my good towels about."

With a conspiratorial wink Halfred ushered Frodo across the threshold into the steamy warmth of Bells kitchen. "Yes Ma. Sorry. Here's Master Frodo." 

Bell beckoned from the other side of the huge scrubbed kitchen table. "Come in Young Master. Take off yer jacket and have a seat. I'm just waiting for the next lot of water to boil. She fanned her red face with her apron and peered through the thick dimness of the small-windowed room. 

"Daisy lass. It's worse than wash day in here. Go open the window for a while to let some of the steam out afore we all drown. And pick up that towel while yer at it."

Frodo shrunk aside as Daisy moved to comply behind him, jumping as her skirts brushed his calves on the way past. The room was a little over cluttered with furniture, but not enough to warrant her stepping quite that close. He removed his jacket and took some time to drape it carefully across the table before perching nervously upon the end of the bench.

"Won't be long now, Mr Frodo. Mr Bilbo said yer hair could be cut dry, but we can see better what's going on if it's squeaky-clean. Daisy, have ye got the clean towels ready and the best soap? And give those scissors a good rinse and wipe."

Frodo winced as Daisy flounced onto the bench directly opposite him and began to wipe and clean the scissors. He found his eyes drawn to the small smear of blood on the cloth, evidence of her last victim. She met his eyes with a suggestive glint and ran the cloth slowly up and down one blade, then the other. Frodo could feel himself blushing and tried to look anywhere else, without seeming impolite.

"Right now, come and help me fill the basin with hot water, Daisy . . . Daisy?" Bell's voice paused and even Frodo cringed at the final, "Daisy Gamgee. Ye put those scissors down and come here at once. And when ye've helped me with this ye can go and feed the sow."

"Sow! The lads always draw lots over that job. It's horrible." Nevertheless, Daisy helped her mother ladle hot and cold water into a large tin basin on the table. Her compliance did not win her a reprieve, however for Bell handed over a bucket filled with the slops of both breakfasts and luncheon. 

"Off ye go, lass. And don't forget yon sow likes a drink too. Give her some water." Her words were almost lost in the sound of the door slamming. Finally, it was just Frodo and Bell and the room felt cosy at last. Frodo let out a long breath . . . blowing his fringe out of his eyes.

Bell slid the basin across the table. "That lass will be the death of me," she muttered as she turned back to the range.

Frodo sincerely hoped Bell was wrong but could well understand the sentiment as he stared at the firelight glinting on the blades of the scissors. He tore his gaze away, trying not to consider his fate at the hands of Daisy Gamgee.

A warm fire glowed in the kitchen range and a large iron casserole sat towards the back, its lid shuddering gently. Bell lifted a cloth and moved the dish closer to the cooler edge of the hob, causing the lid to settle. Still, from it arose the tantalising aroma of stewed rabbit and vegetables. Doubtless a supper supplied by the nearby woods.

"Come round here, if you please Master Frodo, and sit on the bench in front of the bowl," Bell instructed. "And slip off yer fancy weskit."

Frodo complied, a little warily. Would he have to take his shirt off? What would happen if Daisy returned? He all but jumped when Bell's work worn fingers began to tuck under the collar of his shirt. She paused a moment, surprised at his reaction, then continued. "We don't want to get that wet now, do we?" she soothed. "I usually make the young uns take off their shirts but I reckon ye've got sense enough to sit still."

Frodo breathed a small prayer of thanks to whichever of the Valar had the job of protecting young hobbit lads from the unwanted attentions of young hobbit lasses wielding sharp scissors and sharper tongues.

Bell produced a small but exquisitely carved wooden comb and began to run it gently through Frodo's dark curls. He yipped as she found the first knot but once she had his measure Bell managed to untangle the rest relatively painlessly. Frodo found himself surrendering to the process; the firm pressure of one hand upon his scalp while the other pulled the comb over a small area until a knot was worked out. And then there were the long strokes as all the tangles were gone, the feeling of the teeth of the comb scraping lightly down his scalp in steady rhythm. It all became quite soothing.

He blinked when she laid the comb aside, surprised to see how much of his hair was caught in the fine teeth. Just how much hair did he have? Perhaps she had already combed most of it away and Daisy would not have to cut any more off. Bell answered his thought by placing firm hands on his shoulders and pushing down until Frodo's head hung over the steaming basin.

"Here, lad." Frodo looked aside to find Bell offering him a folded facecloth and looked up at her in confusion. "Hold it over yer eyes. It'll stop any stray runs of soap getting in." 

Only half convinced of the efficacy of this suggestion, Frodo nonetheless held it in place. Any attempt at keeping soap out of his eyes was better than none. And his Aunt Calli had never given him the option. His eyes used to tear for hours after she washed his hair. Frodo had been washing his own hair ever since he came to Bag End. He was a tween now, after all. He removed the cloth and glanced up. Whatever must Mistress Gamgee think of him? "I can wash it myself, Mistress Gamgee."

The cloth was guided back at once and Bell filled an old cracked cup from the basin before leaning over Frodo's hunched shoulders. "I'm sure ye can. But I like washing hair. Besides, knowing young lads I'll warrant ye'll have water all over my floor and yerself by the time ye've finished." She tweaked his ear and then poured the warm water gently over Frodo's head. He was left with no option and replaced the cloth.

Warm. The water flowed from the back of Frodo's head and down to his temples, where it ran off back into the basin in little splashing trickles. Bell's fingers followed the path of the water across Frodo's scalp, gently using liquid and hand to smooth the thick dark hair forward. By the time she had his hair fully wet, Frodo was beginning to relax, unresisting as her hand to guided his head to one side or the other.

Aunt Rosemary had been the last person to wash and cut his hair and Frodo still shuddered at the memory of her rough handling. He and Bilbo had been visiting Brandy Hall for Merry's birthday party and his elderly aunt had insisted that Frodo have his hair cut for the event. Then she had proceeded to half drown and sheer him like some wayward sheep.

The wetting stopped and Frodo flinched as something cold was dabbed upon his head. Sensing his reaction, Bell paused. 

"It's alright Master Frodo. 'Tis just soap shavings softened in water a while. 'Tis easier than using a block of soap, although I'll admit 'tis a bit cold. It'll warm when I lather it up."

Without further ado, Bell's strong fingers began to swirl in his hair, creating a thick, creamy lather that crackled in Frodo's ears. Any tension caused by the chill soap was soon worked away by the firm but gentle touch of Bell's fingers and Frodo's body drifted down closer to the bowl as the muscles of his back relaxed. 

Aunt Rosemary's hands had scrubbed and tugged but this was a slow massage of kindly fingers. Frodo was glad that his face was hidden and he swallowed against a sudden lump in his throat as he remembered another touch. It had been a long time since anyone had touched him as lovingly as this, and for a moment he panicked as a need to cherished warred with a need to show that he was happy with his lot in life. The need for the touch of a mother's hands won and he was glad of the facecloth covering his watering eyes.

Bell seemed to sense his mood and continued to rub her fingers across his scalp in silence for a few minutes before starting the first rinsing. "There, now, lad. That's the soaping done so ye can let go that cloth if ye like, while I get fresh water."

Frodo peeled it away, to find his nose only a scant couple of inches from the cloudy water. He had not the time to contemplate it, however, as Bell draped a warm towel over his head and slid the basin away.

"Now just ye sit still while I fill this for the last rinse." 

Frodo felt no inclination to do otherwise. The room was warm and still damp and the air was a strange mixture of lavender scented soap and rabbit stew. For a moment he imagined that the feet moving around on the flagstone floor behind him had dark hair instead of gold. But then the basin, filled with fresh, steaming water, was pushed back by Bell's lined, square hands. His mother's hands had been smooth and long fingered.

"Let's just add a drop of this to cut through the last o' that soap." A slightly pungent liquid was poured into the water and Frodo sniffed tentatively. It actually didn't smell too bad.

"What is it?"

"Tis just cider vinegar, rosemary and lavender. Soap can be nasty stuff to get out of yer hair. Ye'd best put that facecloth back. Don't want vinegar in yer eyes." 

The air felt cold on Frodo's scalp as Bell lifted the towel but the chill was soon washed away by the sensation of warm water running over it once more. Frodo surrendered to the sensation of water, running through his hair, chased by Bell's capable fingers. He could hear the squeak of clean hair as she combed her fingers through; the sound setting his teeth on edge. Too soon, it seemed to him, the rinsing stopped and his head was draped in a warmed dry towel. Frodo abandoned his face cloth.

"Up ye come, lad and lets see how long this tangle really is." He lifted his head slowly, watching little motes of light dance before his eyes for a moment as his body adjusted to the change in position. Once more Bell's fingers massaged his scalp, this time through the fabric of the towel, and Frodo could not help a pleasurable smile at the relaxing feel of it. Bilbo loved him dearly; he had no doubt of that. But only a mother could give this kind of loving touch, and he had missed it for too many years.

A nagging worry began to make itself felt however, as he considered what Daisy would make of the cutting. Hers was anything but a mother's touch. But there was no sign of Daisy's return and it was Bell that set the scissors on the table before him.

Bell pushed the basin out of the way and removed the towel. Then she reached aside for a small glass bottle. Opening it, she dabbed a little of the contents onto a finger and rubbed the pale glistening drop of liquid into her palms. Frodo recognised the scent of rosemary as Bell began to smooth her palms over his hair. 

"This will help ease out the tangles and make it shine. 'Tis just oil with a touch of rosemary to make it smell nicer. Although I don't think this lovely hair needs any help with the shine. Ye've got a fine head of hair." She took up the comb again, having pulled out the fluff of hair from her previous attempt at ordering, and ran it through his now damp locks. To Frodo's relief, any tangles were soon dealt with and he could feel the teeth of the fine comb running from crown to nape with no resistance. 

Bell's deft fingers pushed up the hair at his crown several times until she found the little whorl of growth that marked the natural centre and combed the thick, almost black, hair out smoothly from it in all directions. Then she fished about in her skirt pocket and produced two smaller combs, which she set upon the table. These were not as fine as the one she had used before, obviously carved from animal bone and with some of their teeth missing.

Once more, Frodo responded trustingly to the confident fingers that tilted his head forward, hoping against hope that it would be Bell cutting his hair. He felt her run the comb across his neck and then blinked in surprise as first one and then the other of the old combs disappeared and he felt them tucked into his hair, holding the upper part out of the way. He swallowed hard as the feel of a similar touch flashed through his mind. Frodo tried to place the errant memory. 

Aunt Callendula had always sat a pudding basin on his head and cut around it. Frodo cringed at the memory and the teasing he used to get from the other lads. Aunt Rosemary just seemed to take up random chunks of hair and chop them off. It didn't look too bad when it had grown out after a couple of weeks but for the first few days it stuck up on end in every direction which, when combined with his large blue eyes, gave him a permanently startled look. A small tear ran down Frodo's cheek as the memory finally settled into place. Mamma's combs had been delicately carved from dark wood but she had used them in this same way.

Bell pushed his head a little further forward and Frodo felt the blade of the scissors slip along the skin at his neck . . . heard the long quiet crunch . . . and felt the tiny wet feathers of liberated hair settle coldly upon the sensitive flesh of his nape. Using the corner of a towel, Bell brushed the leavings away, moving to deal similarly with the other half of the layer. The process was repeated over and over as Bell's gentle and comfortable fingers worked meticulously up his head, layer by layer. And all through the process, Frodo's tears tracked silently down his cheeks. So long . . . so long since he had been the recipient of such tender attention.

"Well now, that's the back done," Bell announced. "Turn around and stand up to face me now, and I'll do the sides and front, Frodo, lad." Bell had gradually lost all the formality between servant and young master as she worked, so absorbed was she in the task. Frodo sniffed and tried to wipe his tears away before standing, hoping that Bell would see it as him disposing of a stray hair or two.

Standing, he was almost Bell's height nowadays, and when he turned he found himself looking at her warm face. Frodo dropped his gaze when he saw concern settle there. He knew at once that he had not fooled her. "I'm sorry, Mrs Gamgee."

"What ever is the matter, lad. Did I tug too hard?"

"Oh, no," Frodo rushed to reassure her. "I'm being silly, I'm afraid. It's just . . . just . . . that you reminded me of . . . Mamma." 

There was only a moment's pause before he was enveloped in soft strong arms, his nose buried in the warm linen of Bell's neckerchief, inhaling the mother scents of soap and baked bread. Frodo let out a strangled little sob and leaned instinctively into the embrace, wrapping his arms around her ample waist. 

"And why should ye be sorry for rememberin' yer Mamma?" Bell murmured as she rubbed his back. "Ye hold on to them memories, lad. Treasure them and don't ever be ashamed when they come up on ye unawares. Them's the memories that will help ye through the bad times.."

The words poured into Frodo's mind like fresh spring rain on parched grass. "I . . . I didn't want to embarrass you. I'm supposed to be a grown tween. Crying is for children, or so my Uncle Saradas said."

Bell pushed him back gently and lifted his chin with a touch of her hand. "Well now, I don't hold with young lads crying at every little thing. And I'm not so grand thinkin' as yer Uncle Saradas, I reckon. But the loss of a mother . . . 'tis not what I'd call a little thing and it don't do no good to hold all that pain inside. Ye'll find many an old gaffer dropping a tear or two, so don't ye ever be ashamed of cryin'." She blotted his face with a corner of her apron. "And ye won't never embarrass me with tears. I've raised bairns and seen enough of life to know all about tears." Bell smiled softly and Frodo found himself smiling back. He took a deep breath, feeling as though a tight weskit had suddenly been undone, so that he could inhale the full glory of the air around him.

Bell smoothed down her apron and picked up the scissors once more. "Now. Let's get the rest of this hair cut. Mister Bilbo said he wanted to see them blue eyes of yours again and I can see why. I'm thinkin' ye'll have no problems finding dancin' partners at Ferdy Brownside's birthday party next week."

Frodo blushed and his smile widened into a grin as Bell lifted her combs. 

"When I've finished this we'll have a nice cup of tea and an apple tart, before my brood start coming back and demanding their supper." She lifted the scissors to his brow. "Close yer eyes so I don't get any clippings in them. Better look after them eyes."

Frodo obeyed willingly and felt her begin to section off some hair from the crown as she continued. 

"And mayhap, when ye open them again the world will look a bit better."


	7. Chapter 7

A chapter written to celebrate the birthday of FrodoBagginsOfBagEnd.

Rising

Frodo came to an abrupt halt at the closed door to the Gamgee's smial. Closed? On a hot summer's day? He knocked timidly, wondering if something could be amiss, and was somewhat relieved when he heard Bell's cheery, "Come yea in, whoever yea be." On opening the door however he took an involuntary step back, hit by a wave of warm, damp air, redolent with yeast.

"Come in, Young Master and shut the door if you please. I'm sorry I couldn't come to the door but I'm all over flour." Bell waved her plump arms at him with a broad smile. She was indeed, all over flour. In fact it seemed to Frodo that everything was all over flour.

Silky white powder coated the large kitchen table and dusted the floor about and on Bell's feet, turning her foothair grey. Broad splashes of it adorned her apron and arms and she even had a dab on the end of her nose. When Frodo breathed in he noticed that it even hung in the air, making his nose itch and catching in his throat.

His awe must have registered on his face for Mistress Gamgee chuckled. "Now yea know why Mister Bilbo don't bake bread in the summer. I've nearly got your order done. Just a couple of loaves finishin' in the oven."

"Thank you, Mistress Gamgee." Frodo dabbed at his upper lip surreptitiously, trying to wipe away the perspiration that had suddenly sprung out there and holding his arms a little away from his body. It didn't help. He could feel damp patches developing under his armpits already. He could see that Bell herself was not immune to the temperature, her bodice completely soaked beneath it's covering apron and tendrils of hair plastered to her brow.

Bell obviously noticed his small action and took pity on him. "Yea can come back a bit later if yea want. 'Tis not a day to be sittin' in a hot kitchen. Them loaves will be a another quarter hour or so."

Frodo considered the golden sun streaming through the room's one round window. He had been sitting in the garden, reading, when Bilbo had sent him off to the Gamgee's for their bread. As he suspected his uncle knew he would, Frodo had jumped at the chance to visit the family. Bagend was his home now and felt it. And Bilbo was dear. But the bustling Gamgee smial reminded him of Brandy Hall and Bell, herself, of his own Mama so he never turned down a chance to call.

His gaze returned to the table where, on a collection of mismatched wire trays, assorted breads steamed gently through their golden tops. Frodo swallowed a mouthful of saliva and dragged his eyes away from the mouth-watering display.

"I can wait. I was reading and by the time I've gone to my book and settled back into the story it will be time to come back anyway."

Bell followed his gaze and swallowed a smile as she hoisted a lump of sticky dough out of the large stoneware basin and thumped it down on a circle of flour on the table, sending up a cloud of dust that made Frodo pinch his nose to stop a sneeze.

"Yea'd best sit down, then. But if yea want to keep that fancy waistcoat clean yea'd best sit at yonder end." She motioned to the end farthest from her immediate work area and, perhaps not entirely coincidentally, far away from the cooling bread.

Frodo complied, pushing his shirtsleeves up a little further as he climbed over the bench and settled down. The sight and smell of all that fresh bread was a torture to his tweenage stomach and he hoped Bell could not hear it rumbling from way over there. From the twinkle in her green eyes however, he suspected she could.

For a few minutes there was silence in the room, apart from the slide of the dough as Bell kneaded and turned it about on her table. With each pull and knuckled tuck Frodo could feel the table shake beneath his elbows and he placed his chin in his hands, mesmerised by the soothing rhythm of it.

When the dough was no longer sticky but round and elastic, a smooth ball, Bell gathered it up in both hands and dropped it into another basin. Then she gathered up a muslin cloth from a waiting pile and covered it, before setting it aside to rise. When she returned she had another bowl with her and paused to sprinkle a generous layer of floor before upturning the basin and dumping the huge lump of dough out onto the table.

Another dusting of flour on top and she began her kneading again, completely absorbed in her work and pausing only to sprinkle a little more flour. Pull, tuck and turn, pull, tuck and turn, pull, tuck and turn.

Frodo settled deeper into his elbows, smiling gently. He and Bell had settled into an easy relationship that didn't demand that she entertain the young master of the hill. And Frodo had made himself a welcome addition to her motherly circle.

Bell dropped the dough back into it's bowl and glanced up once more, as though suddenly remembering that she had a guest. "I'm sorry 'tis so warm in here. But a stray drought can kill the yeast and flatten the bread." She called out to the darkened entrance to the rest of the smial. "Daisy."

From somewhere in the depths of the hill Frodo noticed for the first time the muffled sounds of flapping and suspected that the eldest Gamgee lass was making beds. The sounds continued and Frodo held his breath. Daisy would not be pleased at any interruption, particularly from her mother. Interruptions from mother usually meant another task in the offing. But Bell was mistress here.

"Daisy Gamgee. I know you can hear me . . . Daisy!"

Frodo shrank at her last call; glad that the only person he had ever heard Bell use that sharp tone with was Daisy.

Daisy appeared, her hair mussed and hands planted defiantly on hips. "I've not finished the beds yet, Ma," she got in quickly, before she took in Frodo's presence with a flick of her eyes, and the tween found he didn't like the sudden gleam there.

"Them beds should have been long done, girl. But yea can finish them in a bit. We've company. Go fetch a cup of cold water from the crock in the pantry."

Daisy sniffed and made to flounce her skirts but a warning glare from her mother stopped the action mid flick and it turned into a smoothing motion. She grabbed up one of the best cups from the top shelf of the dresser and headed off through another door. Frodo swallowed, and this time it had nothing to do with the smell of cooling bread. Daisy had a way of getting her own back and the younger lad sat up straight, bracing himself.

Daisy sashayed back into the kitchen, the dewed cup of her mother's precious china held firmly in both hands. She approached the table opposite Frodo with a small but wicked smile on her face and leaned forward to place the cup before him. Frodo's cornflower eyes widened.

It was high summer and the Gamgees had not been expecting company. With the warm work of making the beds, Daisy had loosened the lacings on her bodice and Frodo suspected her visit to the pantry and "accidentally" loosened them further.

Bell's table was wide, had to be so to accommodate such a large brood, and it necessitated Daisy bending very low as she leaned across it, cup in one outstretched hand and eyes locked on Frodo's face. Frodo would have returned the gaze but he found his eyes locked somewhere totally different as he found himself on the receiving end of his first good look down a lasses' bodice. He could feel a blush creeping up his neck and shifted uncomfortably upon the bench. Daisy remained still, confident in her command over him until . . .

"Daisy Gamgee! Get yea outside and feed those pigs!" Bell's voice was not loud but the warning note in it was very clear.

Daisy startled upright but soon regained her composure. "But Mam! I ain't finished the beds yet. Why am I always the one that ends up swillin' the pigs?" Daisy whined. "Why don't Sam do it? He's youngest."

Bell grabbed up her ball of dough and thumped it down into the waiting basin, taking up a long and sharp knife to slice off a smaller lump. To Frodo's eyes she seemed to do so with unnecessary gusto. "Aye. 'Tis not a nice job, is it?"

Frodo took a hurried swig of the cold water, sighing in relief as he felt the liquid slide down his body and settle in his stomach, from where it sent out cooling tendrils to other parts.

"'Tis an easy enough job and gives a body time to consider other things. So happen while you're doin' it you'll have time to think on the proper manners for a young lass before a lad and in particular, a gentlehobbit." She glanced up from kneading the smaller ball of dough. "And yea could fasten that bodice up while yer about it. The pigs 'l not be impressed."

To her credit, Daisy did blush as she grabbed up the slop bucket and stomped from the smial, even taking care to close the door quietly behind her.

Bell gusted out a puff of air as her eldest daughter left and Frodo concentrated hard on the cold water . . . concentrated very firmly on "cold". Thus it was that he did not notice anything else for some time until a small plate was slid before him, on which sat a breakfast roll, opened and steaming, with a large dollop of butter melting slowly into it.

He looked up into Bell's knowing eyes and she smiled. "Food. 'Tis a wondrous thing for taking the mind off other things." And with those gentle words she turned back to her kneading.

4


End file.
